


Not All Pursuits Are Literary

by Lyrae_Immortalis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Canon Autistic Character, Canon Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, Forensic Analyst Ed, GCPD, M/M, Mentions of alcohol and drugs, Mobster Oswald, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season 1, Rated E For Later, Tags Updated Every Chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis
Summary: Edward Nygma is just a week away from his interview at the GCPD when he stumbles across a murder taking place in the library. Unsure of the impact this will have on his future, Ed helps the assailant dispose of the body, hoping to put matters behind him and move on with his life...unfortunately, some people aren't as easy to forget.





	1. Chance Happenings

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place prior to season one of Gotham. It was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but then a plot formed. So here we go, a new au :)
> 
> Thank you to Flux for being my beta <3 
> 
> Happy reading!

Gotham Public Library: Ed's favourite place in the entire city, and one of the grandest, too.

He read an article once which dubbed the building one of the most well-stocked libraries in the _country,_ and for a city as dilapidated as Gotham—one wracked with crime, hostility, and on the brink of total collapse—isn't that the rarest treasure of all?

Tugging on the leather strap of his messenger bag, Ed scurries up the twenty-eight steps, and eases his way inside with a smile stretching across his face.

The scent of history and knowledge envelops him in a familiar and comforting hug, but the undertones of the recently used carpet deodorizer invades his senses, and tickle at his nose. Ed sniffs and squints at the source. The vacuum cleaner hasn't been silent long; the residual heat is still wafting off it, humidifying the air, as the janitor quickly finishes his morning tasks.

Ed nods a polite _hello_ when their eyes meet, then strolls over to the front counter, sliding his borrowed books into the returns slot.

"Back again, Mr Nygma?" Madam Librarian asks, without raising her eyes over the brim of her round spectacles. She's engrossed in her task, typing something into the computer, head bobbing.

"Do the deceased still get goosebumps?" Ed quips, merrily.

The librarian blinks and frowns. She lifts her chin and the wrinkles between her greying brows grow more pronounced the longer she stares.

"The answer to both of those questions is _yes_ ," Ed answers, shuffling on his feet. "Although...there is a _slight_ technicality. When a person dies and rigor mortis sets in, the muscles connected to the hair follicles contract, giving the _appearance_ of goosebumps. It is in no way an active response to any form of stimulation, but the sentiment is the same. It's Tuesday, of course I'm here."

"That you are," she says, belatedly, before dismissing him. "Have a good day, Mr 

Nygma, and remember—"

"No liquids permitted near the rare books," he recites from memory, smiling tight-lipped. "Got it."

At an acceptable pace, Ed scampers upstairs to his self-claimed alcove. It's a small boxed-in corner surrounded by thick rows of books, which insulates him from the buzzing whispers that will soon blanket the lower levels.

"Hello again," Ed says, caressing the walnut wood of his desk, as though he is greeting an old friend—not that he rubs his friends...or has any, for that matter. Ed's only company stems from the streams of words printed on paper. That is why the library fosters a sense of comfort. It is a shelter of refuge. Warm, abiding, accepting. _Home_. Books aren't able to judge or criticize, only provide.

Ed knows when he visits he must conform to _the way_...and that's okay. That's _how it is._ Every location has a set of preordained rules, ones he's been desperately trying to learn before his upcoming interview at Gotham City's Police Department the following week. 

_It needs to go perfectly. No mistakes allowed._

"I'll be right back. Don’t go anywhere." Jovially, Ed laughs to himself as he peruses the corridors, heading towards the science section. The table may have four legs, but it cannot walk. _There's a riddle there somewhere._

Over the course of the past month, Ed has diverted from his usual studies and has spent a significant portion of time preparing for his upcoming interview: researching the workplace, the people, the system. There's limited information to be found regarding the inner workings of the GCPD, but Ed hopes, after next week, he'll be able to unearth the answers for himself. That is where the greatest satisfaction lies.

For now, he'll continue to update his skill-set. He may have graduated, but education continues to be both a great reward and a rewarding distraction.

Returning to his table, shoulders protesting under the weight of the books, Ed sits and carefully fingers the lettering on each one, before cracking open the cover to an avalanche of pages. Words appear and disappear as his eyes flitter back and forth, quickly picking out anything of importance. With a grimace, Ed flattens out the dog tagged ears and opens his notepad, spinning his pen idly.

¿?

The chiming of the grandfather clock is twenty-three seconds early—most of the clocks in the building are off schedule, bar the one Ed is seated under. It tolls eight times. Rucking up the end of his sleeve, Ed double checks the time. _8pm!_ He could have _sworn_ the midday melody played only moments ago. Stifling a yawn, Ed presses his fingertips into his bleary eyes. The rippling blackness provides evidence of his studies, in a stream of related words: nucleotides, deoxyribonucleic acid, phenolphthalein, STR analysis. 

_When did I last blink?_

Wiggling in his chair, he stretches all his seized muscles—twisting his arms through the air, curving his spine, groaning indecently—then refocuses. He will not fall asleep amongst the books again tonight.

He rotates his pen three times, places the balled tip to the paper, only to startle and drop it.

He jolts and blinks out of synchronisation at the following bang. _Ignore it, Ed. Focus on your work. Focus, concentrate, focus,_ he chants, willing his mind away from the disturbance, but his ears don't obey. They stretch to detect any little noise, and there are many of them; clatter, grunting and groaning, and the distinct sound of books tumbling to the floor.

Ed huffs over his top lip, and his hair flutters off his forehead. His fingers, of their own accord, strike the desk repeatedly, rhythmically, and his leg bounces in a similar fashion, heel kissing the carpet. _Taptaptaptaptap._ Another rattle sees Ed grind his teeth together; the back of his neck tingles as the noise amplifies.

 _That’s enough, this isn’t right. This is a library. They can’t cause such disruptions,_ Ed thinks, suddenly furious. _It's against the rules._ Slotting his pen in the margin of his notepad, Ed slams it closed and storms off towards the source, hands balled, shoulders folded forward.

It’s not the first time Ed has happened across a rowdy couple engaging in a risky bout of intercourse. Some people are exhibitionists or slave to their libido. If they quieten down and avoid soiling the books, Ed has no quarrels, but it _cannot_ go uncontested.

"Excuse me, cou—"

Rounding the corner, Ed’s breath becomes trapped in his throat. The source of the noise is hardly what he expected. _This isn't sex._

He watches—heart stuttering, mouth gaping—the scuffle play out before him. Two men: different in size, height, general appearance, are pressed up against one of the near bookshelves, arguing in hushed tones. The shorter, tattered man is clearly dominating the exchange, if the pained and wary expression on the other man's face is anything to go by.

 _He's wearing a significant amount of eyeliner,_ Ed notes, head tilting to the side, looking for the interesting, in an appalling situation. It's smudged and appears a week old, at best. _Has he been sleeping in it?_ His oily, unkempt hair criss-crosses his forehead and brushes his slanted brows, highlighting his eyes.

They're green—not the bright, vivacious, grassy-kind romanticised so often in literature. No, the man before him, his eyes are the colour of pond scum, bubbling like a witch’s brew. 

Green: the colour which represents poison, something lethal. 

Green: like the deadly Victorian wallpaper tainted with toxic copper arsenite, only not as radiant.

Green: Ed's favourite colour.

The switchblade in his hand registers last. Even the chipped black nail polish nabs Ed’s attention before the gleaming glint of the weapon.

“Pipsqueak, do you _mind?_ ” he hisses, and Ed peers over his shoulder, spinning in a fast circle, before recentering on the man who addressed him.

"Are you—are you talking to _me?_ " Ed asks, pointing to himself. _Am I...pipsqueak?_

“Yes, _you_. You’re the only person here.”

“No, I’m not. That’s factually incorrect. There’s you—a-and this other gentleman, and a whole flock of people downstairs, not to mention several security guards, cleaners, gener—” 

“I get the point,” the man snaps, words lashing like whips. _He's angry._ The tip of his knife is resting under the taller man’s jaw, rendering him silent, unless he desires to impale himself. His eyes are pleading for assistance, but Ed doesn't answer the call. “ _Leave_.”

“ _Okay_...but please quieten down. I’m trying to study." Ed spins on his heel and makes his way back to his desk, but not before he overhears a huff of frustration.

 _What are you doing?_ he asks, chiding himself. _That's going to become an active crime scene at any given second, and you're walking away?_

Ed paces back and forth beside his desk, clenching and unclenching his fists, thoughts tumbling. Does he call the police? They wouldn't get here in time, and then where would he be? The assailant would flee, and Ed will be left standing beside a corpse, on a level people rarely visit, on a level he's _well-known_ for occupying—madam librarian would corroborate that. In all likelihood, the GCPD will pin the murder on him and call it a day. There's little evidence to support he _didn't_ do it. He was, after all, _there_. He's accountable.

_I cannot solve murders from Blackgate; I couldn't even survive Blackgate._

_I need to do something. If there's no crime, there's no persecution. I'll be safe._

Arms, legs, and thoughts whirling, Ed sprints back the way he came, and when he arrives, he rests his head on the bookshelf to catch his breath.

“Poindexter, you’ve returned. _How nice_.”

The sarcasm is so heavily intoned, Ed can taste it. _It’s sour._ He glares harshly from up under his lashes. “I’ve come to tell you—wh-what did you do?”

“What you knew I would, when you left?”

There's blood speckling the other man's face, pinpricks of red amongst brown freckles. Blood. _Blood,_ like thick, viscous red wine, puddled on the floor, beneath a paling corpse. _Oh no. Oh dear._ Ruby droplets are shaken free from the tip of the switchblade and splatter across several opened books.

"Don't you know what you've done?" Ed asks, the pitch of his voice grows higher with every word. "Blood is virtually _impossible_ to remove from paper, and these works are some of the rarest publically available."

Scurrying forward, Ed tiptoes around the red puddle, and gathers the books in his arms, protecting them from further contamination. The other man laughs, chin buried in the high collar of his heavily-buttoned, military-styled, black jacket.

"That’s _not_ the reaction I was expecting. Books. _Books?_ There's a fellow here, with his throat sliced open, _at your feet_ , and you're more concerned about the literature?" He rolls his eyes and clicks his weapon closed. “You’re an odd one.”

Ed grimaces, lips mashed together. "This isn't the first body I've been around," he elaborates, _but it is the freshest._ If it wasn't for the location, _and_ the manner of death, Ed would have dashed back for his notepad, and detailed his observations.

"Are you going to clean this up?" Ed asks. 

"Why would I?" the other man contests, querulously, as though the answer is obvious. _It isn't._ "I already did what I needed to do. Sanitation is not part of the service."

"What are you, some kind of hitman?" Ed wonders, aloud. "There is trace evidence _everywhere_. With a single strand of hair, a DNA test can be performed; your information will be on the record." _If it isn't already,_ he avoids saying. "You'll be arrested. You'll go to Blackgate."

"What are you—" the grunge-punk man repeats back to Ed, eyeing him up and down, "—some kind of... _scientist?_ "

Straightening his spine, Ed nods. "Yes. That's exactly what I am."

"Well, isn't it my lucky day? The sun is certainly shining down on me—"

"—It's overcast, and raining—"

"— _You're_ on clean-up duty."

"I... _beg_ your pardon?" Ed baulks, and the other man— _I need to find out his name_ —grins broadly, flashing his yellow-stained teeth. _Is he a smoker or does he have bad dental hygiene?_

"You know your way around this sort of thing, correct?" 

Ed nods, disliking the direction this is heading. He should have remained seated at his study table. 

"Then you are the _perfect_ man for the job."

Shunting the books to a nearby table, Ed laughs nervously, and fiddles with his tie. It probably isn't a solid idea to argue with a murder, but Ed cannot help himself. Inching forward half a step, he shakes his head. “You want _me_ to get rid of your waste? I’m not the one who decided a _library_ was the best place for a _murder_."

Mr Tattered T-shirt and Ripped Jeans doesn't miss his mark. He strides across the room, confidently, forcing Ed to retreat back. Blood rushes past Ed's ears, and his breath grows shallow. He finds his hands grasping the structure behind him.

"If you didn't want to do this, you should have stopped me, or left well enough alone."

 _In for a penny, in for a pound._ Ed can't argue with such logic—he can, but they would end up compromising themselves. By Ed’s estimations, there are only thirty-eight minutes till security begins their sweep of the building. Thirty-eight minutes to remove the body and disinfect the area. The books will have to wait for another day.

"Okay," Ed relents, bowing his head.

"Okay? You—you're agreeing?" Mr Panda Eyes questions.

"Did I stutter?” Ed snaps, drawing an intriguing look of surprise. "Don't answer that. Just…stay here, _right here_ , and watch the body. I’ll go get the necessary supplies.” Before he rounds the corner, Ed throws his head over his shoulder and squints. "If you leave, I’ll report you.” _I might do so regardless._

Ed makes a quick pitstop at his desk to grab his messenger bag and belongings, then scurries off down the staircase towards the janitorial closet. His frazzled nerves are bundling together in the pit of his empty stomach. They burst off in different directions, like firecrackers, propelling him forward. 

_Slow down. You look suspicious,_ his subconscious hisses at him.

Concentrating on his gait, Ed slows as he crosses the room—the librarian looks at him quizzically for a heavily-weighted second, then glances away.

The lockpick Ed keeps stashed in his bag for emergencies provides useful yet again. Within seconds he slips into the room, and _appropriates_ diluted bleach, paper towels, garbage bags, tape, and two pairs of gloves.

When he makes it back upstairs, Ed breathes a heavy sigh of relief after noticing his new acquaintance hasn't fled the scene. _I really need to find out his name_ , Ed thinks, tossing him a pair of gloves, _I’m going to call him Mr Criminal—Mr C for short_. Together, they bag the body, mop up the blood, and clean the floors. Ed takes time to hide the four books stained with blood, situating them on random stacks, far away from the crime scene, then scampers back.

"Service elevator," he whispers, as the tail end of his plan formulates in his head. The assailant quirks a brow. _Right, elaborate._ "We need to take the body to the loading dock. I can bring my car around and—"

The elevator dings. It sounds like a warning, like a foghorn in a lighthouse warning vessels of imminent danger. Ed peers down at his watch, heart fibrillating. _Drats! Time’s up._ For the first time that evening, Mr C finally has the gall to look somewhat frightened, and for some reason, that’s reassuring for Ed. 

"Grab his feet, we need to move him _, now,"_ Ed orders, attempting to take charge of the situation. “We can sneak around the side and—” 

"No time," comes the retort from Mr C. "I've got a plan, follow my lead."

The wrapped body is dragged behind a bookcase; from Ed’s position, his feet are clearly visible. _It’s not wide enough to hide him. This won’t work._ The adrenaline floods his body like it's on an intravenous drip, urging him to flee. It knows he’s not a fighter, that he’d be safest far away from any form of conflict. At the far end of the hall, Ed’s ears catch the sound of heavy footsteps and the clinking of keys growing steadily closer. _I’m going to go to jail._

“Hey, hey, calm down. Look at me.” 

There is a pair of hands on his arms, resting softly, guiding him forward. Ed flinches and throws his unsteady hands up beside his head. “D-don’t touch me.”

"Pretend we're...making out."

The ridiculous notion catches Ed off guard, cutting through his rising panic. “ _What?_ ”

Mr C laughs or scoffs, the difference is indiscernible, but the warm puff of breath on Ed’s face is not.

“Open your eyes.”

 _Green_.

It’s inches away from him. So are books.

“Listen to me, and get a hold of yourself. We have less than a minute before the guard arrives, so put your head beside mine and step in close.”

Ed nods. _Pretend_. How does one pretend to kiss someone? What does _making out_ even entail? He can _try_ to pretend, but how his performance is perceived is another story.

Arching forward, fingers clasping the bookcase, Ed shuffles in, but respects personal boundaries. His heart is beating so fast it paradoxically slows the time around him, distorting it, as his mind works to make sense of the escalating development. 

“What’s your name?” Ed asks, under breath, seeking distraction. It feels like pertinent information to know, especially under the circumstances. An arm is wound around his waist at the same time a firm “ _no”_ reaches his ears. Ed shivers.

"No you don't have one, or is no your name?"

"Be quiet, will you? People don’t generally talk this much when kissing."

Ed licks his lips and nods. _Sell the show. Make it believable. How?_ "Can I—can I name you?" Ed whispers. _I’ve already named you, but it’s polite to ask._ He often talks when he is nervous, unable to mute the connection between his brain and mouth. 

To his chagrin, his earnest question is met with sputtering. "W-What kind of request is that? Stop talking."

"You're very rude, do you know that? I—"

Ed finds himself manhandled, tugged forward against the man before him, gap closed. There's heat. There are foreign bones and muscles pressing into him: another body against his own. His breath hitches, catching in the back of his throat, but the lips of his criminal friend steals it.

_Friend?_

_He’s...kissing me?_

Ed's skill in the area is infinitesimal—virtually non-existent. It _is_ non-existent. He has no skill. He tests a shift of his lips and finds it not entirely underwhelming. He repeats the action, slowly finding some sort of rhythm until a tongue breaches its way past his teeth and traces the roof of his mouth. 

Tingles rush up Ed’s spine, and he whimpers. He wants to feel that again, that sensation, whatever that was. He chases forward, angles his head, and loses himself to the act, following the other man’s lead. Lips brush demandingly, hands grasp passionately. Ed’s blood is whooshing past his ears so fast, it deafens him to the obscene sounds he is making.

"Mr Nygma!"

Heart rising, then plummeting, Ed throws himself back against the opposite bookshelf, startled. Wide-eyed, he flicks his gaze back and forth between the security guard and the man who _stole_ his first kiss.

The guard shakes his head and frowns. “I didn't expect this behaviour from you.”

 _What’s that supposed to mean?_ Ed wonders. "No no no, I—it’s not my fault. I was...coerced, persuaded." The man beside him—the bane of Ed's existence—smiles devilishly at the guard, appearing all too casual as he tugs on the ends of his sleeves, composure still intact. 

"It won't happen again," Ed promises. _It can’t. I don’t even know him._

“See that it doesn’t.” A scrupulous glare is thrown towards Ed’s new...Ed’s—the assailant. “Library’s closing in twenty minutes. It might be time to bid your... _friend_ here a good night.”

“Yes sir, will do, home time it is,” Ed agrees, suddenly remembering the reason behind the kiss: the corpse. Cold sweat glistens on his furrowed brow. With hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, he fiddles with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other and nods. “I’ll just...grab my things and go,” he says, but the guard is already on his way, continuing his sweep of the floor.

“You kissed me,” Ed hisses, the moment he’s certain they are alone. With all of his unruly behavior, murdering a man in a public library, forcing Ed to be a co-conspirator, he has the gall to kiss him! The nerve… 

Mr Kiss Thief smirks. “You weren’t complaining.”

Heat rises to Ed’s cheeks, a clear manifestation of his frustration and nothing else. “You didn’t give me the _chance_ to!”

“Did you see another way for us to get out of that as cleanly as we did?” 

“I, _ah_...no,” Ed relents, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s right...but that doesn’t mean Ed has to like it. “Just...don’t do it again.” 

“Wasn’t planning on it. Now, let's grab our cargo and go, before we are caught doing something _other_ than kissing.”

Deflating, shoulders slumping, Ed picks up his bag and does as instructed. It’s not an easy task and he struggles more than he lets on; physical prowess was never something he was accomplished in. By the time they get the body outside and into the trunk of his car, Ed is huffing, red-faced, and every muscle aches. 

With his keys in hand, he locks it closed, like a memory he no longer wants to face, out of sight, out of mind. If only this was the last step, if only it didn’t require a burial, Ed would have driven home and passed the evening off as a vivid dream caused by an overabundance of study, but he’s not alone. There’s a crunch of gravel beside him and Ed spins around in time to see the other man begin his descent into the night.

“Wait,” he shouts, reaching out to nab him by the arm. “Aren’t you going to help me?”

“No. I’m afraid not.” 

The hold is shrugged off and Ed fiddles with his fingers again, waiting for an explanation.

“I have no doubt you can handle burying a corpse on your own...and who knows, maybe you’ll learn not to interrupt people in the future.”

 _He’s infuriating._ Ed grinds his teeth together and scratches his nails across the pad of his thumb, glaring at the man—who is in no way a pleasant acquaintances or friend—stroll off into the distance, head held high. Before he can make it out of sight, enveloped by shadows, Ed finds himself shouting, “My name’s Edward,” with no conscious reasoning.

“I know,” comes a cheerful reply, voice drifting in the wind. “I have your wallet.”

Ed gasps and pats himself down, turning out every pocket, but his efforts to locate his wallet are without results. _Oh, I hate him._


	2. Changing Fortunes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving the library, Oswald's night doesn't get any simpler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm loving writing this story so far, and I think I'm slowly piecing together a solid plot line, so that's fantastic! 
> 
> Chapter warning: there are mentions of alcohol and drugs in this chapter, but it's hardly detailed. Only a mention.
> 
> Once again, thank you to flux for beta-ing. I appreciate you and your assistance so much <3
> 
> Happy reading!

Despite his desire to put distance between himself and the library, it takes Oswald close to two hours to get back to the Narrows. 

Ordinarily, this wouldn't phase him; he takes pleasure in strolling through the streets and immersing himself in the city, often walking around with no destination in mind. It’s both a pleasant activity and the best way to gather secrets; however, tonight is different. Tonight he killed a man for no reason other than his future satisfaction.

Entering the drug den, asphalt and loose chunks of concrete crunch underfoot, and as the door creaks closed behind him, the sharp smell of sweat invades his nose, like the black plumes of smoke billowing from the window of a burning house up the street. It’s thick, and dirty, and so overwhelming that Oswald has to inhale in half-breaths to compensate, but when a gun is raised to the space between his eyes, he gasps and very nearly dry-heaves at the foul taste coating his tongue. 

Heartbeat hammering in his ears, Oswald tenses and makes no move, shows no other outward reactions, until a familiar face comes to his rescue.

"Cobblepot," Danny beams, eyes blazing with more than glee, "you should know by now, that you need to knock. We coulda took you out."

 _Then you are a bigger fool than I first thought._ "Well, forgive me, but I was under the _impression_ that I was always welcome," Oswald says, tugging on the cuffs of his jacket, appearing nonchalant, before raising his eyes. "Isn't that what your boss reiterated last month?"

Danny shuffles on his feet and brushes a twitching hand through his oily locks. "Yeah yeah, you're good, but we can't be too careful, now can we? Business is a dangerous thing, enemies everywhere."

"Mhmm," Oswald hums, inching away from the other man. "Speaking of Mr Springett, is he in?"

"Who?" The question is thrown at him with an amused smirk.

Oswald clenches his jaw and pulls his lips into a smile he feels little joy for. "Is…Sammy _Sprinkles_ out back? I have information he'd be rather pleased to hear."

"Check his office." Oswald is told, and with a nod of thanks, Oswald makes him leave, managing only two short steps before being pulled back into the conversation. _Will he ever be quiet?_

"Cobblepot, aren't you supposed to be working at the Hole tonight?"

The Hole: dive bar of the Narrows, and one of Oswald's places of employment. It's not the most glamorous of positions, but like his strolls, bartending often reaps its own rewards. Grimacing as he checks the time, Oswald curses internally. _Damn that library idiot. He's caused more than one problem tonight. Cherry is—_

Oswald shakes his head. He'll deal with his boss when he gets to work.

"I'll be heading there shortly," Oswald says to Danny, over his shoulder, then pushes his way through the rear door, pleased to see the reason for his visit sprawled out on a rundown old couch.

"Mr _Sprinkles_ , forgive me for intruding, but—"

A hand is waved through the air, rendering Oswald silent.

"Oswald, my friend," Sprinkles bellows, "there's no need to be so formal; this is the Narrows, and neither of us are men of sophistication."

 _Speak for yourself._ "Blame my mother," Oswald begins, begrudgingly. "She instilled many important lessons onto me during my childhood, the least of which is to treat your _superiors_ with _respect_." The words taste like poison on his tongue. Petty criminals are worth more than drug dealers in Oswald's eyes, but he's not here to make enemies…not yet.

Sprinkles throws his feet onto the floor and sits up, grinning so wide, Oswald can count the empty spaces where teeth once lie. 

"Smart woman. Now, sit and tell me what brings you by."

Perching himself on the edge of the nearest chair, Oswald presses most of his weight into the balls of his feet and folds his hands together, elbows on his knees.

"Do you recall the conversation we had the other night?" he asks, although doubtful. Sprinkles was in the highest state of impairment when they last conversed. "You were complaining about your job having such _constrained_ opportunities for advancement."

The other man nods and taps his temple, looking as clueless as ever in the outer edges of his eyes. _Steel trap, my foot. There are colanders with fewer holes._

Leaning forward, Oswald allows a grin to spread across his face. Dealing with someone like Sprinkles might not be the safest bet, but when one gambles with his life, risking it for a more prosperous future, it’s all or nothing. "What would you say if such opportunities were now available?"

"I'd ask what you'd want in return."

Oswald chuckles. "As you said, Sammy, we're friends. All I ask of you is that if the time comes, you are willing to have my back. You never know with this town."

There's a jovial glee rushing through Oswald's veins, like a child who receives a gift they've been wishing for, it's purely untaintable. He chuckles again, and this time it's shared, with an air of camaraderie washing over the room. Friends they are not, but having people owe him favours is exactly what Oswald needs. Sprinkles will be the first of many.

Not wanting to waste any more time, having done all he came to do, Oswald gives Sprinkles a quick rundown of the situation. He shares minimal details surrounding the death of the Narrows drug front runner—he was an odd man, not many in his position seek knowledge, but Oswald assumes books may prove useful in researching narcotic strains…amongst other things—and advises him on who to cast as the perpetrator.

If all goes to plan, Sprinkles will be rewarded accordingly, with either territory, or a loyal band of goons, effectively placing him right where Oswald requires him to be.

"Whatever you need, Oswald, whenever you need it, it's yours."

"Thank you, my friend. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be going. I am already late to my shift." Oswald arches forward to shake Sprinkles' hand, then makes his leave, ignoring Danny on his way out.

The Hole is only three blocks away, and as is he is two hours off schedule, Oswald sprints. With his feet blurring beneath him, and wind carding through his hair, Oswald makes it halfway before the burning in his lungs demands he stop and inhale. It's not pretty: he leans against the wall, palm pressed into the bricks, another to his chest, and wheezes until the draw of breath is smooth and unrestricted.

 _This city will one day kill me,_ Oswald grouses, refusing to admit his own habits might play a major role in his health. _What I wouldn’t give for a breath of something fresh and untainted._

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Oswald walks the rest of the way. There’s no need to kill himself over time already lost.

"Cobblepot, you're late," Cherry says, eyeing him scrutinously, as he passes her on the way to the front door. Under the streetlight, her hair shines almost as brightly as the moon.

"I'm well aware. I—" _killed someone, was wheedled into cleaning it up, kissed a man, and had a meeting with a Narrows miscreant…kissed a man,_ "—had an emergency to see too, something which—"

"This is the Gotham,” she interrupts, face stern, “we all have emergencies, and what do people need to forget their troubles?"

Oswald blinks slowly, and says, " _Alcohol_."

"Smart man—now get in there."

Gritting his teeth, Oswald swallows down any malicious remarks and pushes inside. The metal hinges of the door screech as if in warning, but the rowdy clatter of noise stemming from the basement drowns it out. Compared to the other bar Oswald works in, this one is his least favourite. It is a den of debauchery and alcoholism: the Narrows personified in one room. 

No-one comes here with anything wholesome in mind. 

Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke and the stagnant stench of cigarettes hides within the conglomeration of mephitic odours. There’s even a hint of _sick_ tainting the room. It's awful. He despises working here, but one must pay the bills somehow.

Picking up a dishcloth, Oswald wipes down the bar, and begins to count down until the end of his shift.

The night passes quickly, but without relief; Oswald pours drink after drink, and withholds his vitriolic curses when customers shout in his face. Watching them is his only source of diversion from his menial task, and the only reason he works such a demeaning job, although it's rare he finds any information of substance down in the Narrows.

Flicking his eyes across the room, he takes notice of the men and women shuffling about, struggles lining their faces, making them appear older than they are. There is a man who rants and raves about the police, another crying in the corner, his anguish lost in the hubbub. There is a woman floating around the room, head held high, recruiting people for a heist she has planned the following week, and several others slumped over the bar telling maudlin stories.

They're all of little importance to Oswald. These people will hardly have an effect on the plans he's put in place. They'll continue to operate within the same cycle, wishing they could unshackle themselves, but that is all they'll ever: wish, dream, _never act_.

"Hey, you two, you know the rules," Cherry shouts, jumping onto the counter, causing Oswald to startle and almost drop the glass in his hand. The heels of her boots indent the warped surface of the bar as she stomps her foot, commanding attention. "If you wanna fight, take it upstairs, otherwise sit down and shut up. No violence in my bar."

Oswald shakes his head and wonders why she even bothers enforcing that ineffective rule. Brawls happen, even in the more civilised parts of town. She's better off catering to it, giving people an outlet for their pain and suffering, something other than copious amounts of alcohol.

"Cherry," Oswald starts, after she has hopped down off the counter and tossed back a drink he poured for her. "Isn't it tiresome breaking them up night after night?"

"Are you kidding me, Oswald? That's the fourteenth one in the past seven hours. I'm exhausted."

"Then—and this is only a suggestion—why not let them?" he asks. "If it's going to continue to occur, why don’t you find a way for it to be in _your_ favour."

"You're suggesting a fight club?" Cherry asks, leaning back against the wall, raising her brows, curiosity clearly peaked. "Gotham hasn't seen one of those in years. They were abolished a decade ago."

"Indeed they were." Oswald pauses to pour a beer for a demanding customer, then spins back around to address his boss. "The previous Don put a stop to the underground gladiatorial matches, deeming them barbaric and unnecessary, in an effort to get revenge on his son's death."

"You know your history."

"It's somewhat of a hobby of mine." _One must know the past before they are able to better shape the future._ "Times are changing, Cherry—put the fights back on, let people bet. You'd be much more prosperous."

She sighs at that, crestfallen in the corners of her mouth. 

Oswald wants to reach out and pat her on the shoulder, to console her in some manner, but they don't have that type of relationship. Still, he sympathizes with her. It can't be easy owning a bar in the Narrows, what with the constant repairs, and purchases of new glasses to replace the scattered shards of the old. He doubts she barely breaks even after all the other expenses she has to pay. No wonder she's so adamant about her _no fighting_ rule.

"You know as well as I do, that they'd never allow them to start back up again. It's a nice thought, but a pointless one."

"Everything is negotiable," Oswald smiles broadly at this, skin buzzing. "With the right offer, you may even be _supported_. As long as you continue to pay your dues, a fight club should matter little to the mob now."

As if fate has been listening in, another fight brews in the middle of the room. Two drunkards shout at each other from either side of the pool table, and onlookers quickly merge in around them, vying for front row seats, invoking in Oswald, painful memories of his childhood. When one of the men picks up a pool cue, and the other tosses his glass, Oswald raises his brows at Cherry, as if to say _what are you going to do?_

In typical Cherry fashion, she jumps up onto the bar, making herself seen, heard, and _noticed_.

“Everybody, listen up,” she hollers, and the rowdy chatter dulls to a faint buzz. “I have two-to-one odds that the man in the blue moth-holed shirt will pummel the bearded behemoth into the ground. Any takers?"

There is a split second of silence as the customers work through their stupor and shock—Oswald wants to laugh if only to fill the void—then the vivacious shouts begin, and money starts flying through the air, with coins clattering to the tacky floor. 

Not needing to stick around, knowing Cherry has everything in hand, Oswald takes this as his cue to leave for his break. He’s seen enough violence for one day.

Slipping out from behind the bar, he passes two others on his way up the staircase. People bellow out the door that _Cherry has fights on_ , then a hoard topples in like dominos, stampeding one after the other, very nearly dragging Oswald down with them.

It's not often he has the chance to escape work and slither a fraction of time for himself. The customers are too relentless, crying out for more, more, _more,_ until grunts and slurs become their diction. _Neanderthals._

Ducking into the alleyway beside the bar, yellow beams of streetlight illuminate the invading darkness, casting a myriad of shadows upon the asphalt, and Oswald swiftly lights his cigarette.

Exhaling the first draw out his nose, he shivers slightly in his shoulders and tilts his head back, watching the tendrils of smoke fade before his eyes.

_First kill, first kiss; what a day._

To think his plans, all those months of research and plotting, became hinged on that one man from the library. _I can't account for everything, least of all someone like him._ Slipping the butt of his cigarette between his lips, Oswald reaches into his pocket and withdraws the wallet he stole, tossing it from hand to hand.

Pickpocketing isn't his usual go-to-method for generating extra income—he's too direct to have such dexterity _—_ but the situation called for a distraction. He had to concentrate on something other than the man _groaning_ and _gasping_ into his mouth, lest he be swept away alongside him. Oh, and it was something Oswald gave a split second of thought to; mind almost blank, arm wound around that lithe waist, hand cupping his neck. It would have been easy, _enjoyable even_ , to forget the world existed, to live in the moment, instead of for the future. To press with more intent, to explore the unknown, to make that man—

 _Forget about him,_ Oswald chides himself, snapping out of his fantasy. _You're never going to see him again…unless he makes himself a problem._

And there is the second reason Oswald stole the wallet. He will not let one man—no matter how pleasant he was to kiss—render his ambitions void. Not him, not—

"Edward Nygma." _Huh._

Sucking on the end of his cigarette, Oswald frowns so hard his eyebrows meet the bridge of his nose. 

_He was telling the truth about his name. Who the hell does that? Who in their right mind is_ that _honest with a stranger, a criminal, no less? He's setting himself up for trouble._

"Edward Nygma," Oswald slowly repeats, name rolling off his tongue with ease. "What type of man are you?"

Edward's address is on the license, his birthdate too, personal information that is Oswald's for the taking, but instead of studying details of the man who could be a future thorn in his side, his eyes are glued to the small photograph. In some ways, this counts as studying, right? Know the face of thy enemy, and all that. _Does he always smile so tight-lipped?_ His thumb hovers over photograph, twitching, much like his hands were when he tugged Edward against him and connected their mouths, but—

"Wha…" Oswald splutters, when the wallet is snatched cleanly from his hand. He stares, and blinks, he flexes his fingers, and blinks, then he tosses his cigarette to the ground and launches into a sprint, making chase after the thief.

"Give that back!" he hollers.

_That's what I get for being so distracted._

His feet pound into the asphalt with all the grace of a sack of wet concrete, the sound reverberating around him. Seconds into his run, Oswald is panting; his throat is parched, there's pain shooting up his legs, and his lungs feel like they've shrivelled into raisins. But he prevails. 

One way or another, he'll get Edward's wallet back. He wasn't finished with it yet.

“I suggest…you hand that over…right now,” Oswald wheezes, when he traps the man in a fenced off alleyway, and brandishes his weapon. Like a frightened, caged animal, the thief inches back into the fence, eyes flicking about in search of a safe escape route…only there is none. Oswald boxes him in, stepping forward on unsteady legs, and slides his knife up under the man’s jaw. 

He doesn't want to kill him, his death would serve _no purpose_ , and little satisfaction would be felt in seeing his soul depart…but he does want Edward’s wallet back.

“Must I ask again?”

The other man blubbers, spouting some measly excuse Oswald cannot hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

“I don’t care if you have a dying _cat_ , or no _food_ on the table. I don’t care if you’re about to be _evicted,_ or need to buy medicine for… _whatever!”_ Oswald tosses a hand in the air, frustration heightening. “I don’t _care_ for your _excuses._ I _want_ what is _mine_ , so—” 

"See, I just knew you Narrows folk like to get _freaky-deaky_ with each other."

Whipping his head over his shoulder, Oswald is surprised he doesn’t break his neck. _What now?_ There's a man in the shadows, someone Oswald is about to tell to scat when his gaze lands on a pair of shiny shoes. What a man like him is doing in the Narrows, at this hour, Oswald will never know. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

“Can I help you, detective?” he asks, but his question is met with a heavy silence.

“Then perhaps you’d care to lend a hand? This gentleman," Oswald says, jostling the man in his grasp, " _stole_ something from me, something which doesn't _belong_ to him. Any assistance would be appreciated."

"Lend a—I'm homicide, do you see a body here?"

 _Give it time._

Suppressing his rage, Oswald smiles politely at the detective then returns his attention to the man at the edge of his knife, and makes a grabbing motion with his hand.

The other man nods minutely, and digs into his pocket, tossing Edward's wallet to the side—because handing it over kindly is apparently too simple. Oswald sighs, eyes closed, then steps away. "Thank you," he says over his shoulder, "but this all cou— _arghh!_ "

Gravel scrapes his cheek as he is shoved to the ground, landing face first.

"What the _hell_ was that for?" Oswald grunts, pain flaring.

"Fuck you!" the wallet thief shouts, disappearing into the night.

"The sentiment is returned!" Tucking his limbs beneath him, Oswald struggles to his feet. His cheek is burning— _bleeding_ , he notices after touching it—and his favourite jacket is ruined, ripped in an unfashionable way. _Wonderful. Simply wonderful._

His day has been a disaster from start to finish and at the crux of it all lies Edward. 

Edward, with his unguarded expressions, and too many questions. 

Edward, with his soft lips, and _needy_ gasps. 

Edward: the one man Oswald hasn’t stopped thinking about all night.

Oswald huffs and rubs at his temples, stretching his fingers wide over his brows. Why fate would put a man like that in his path, he cannot comprehend, nor does he want to. It’s late. Snatching up Edward’s wallet, Oswald brushes himself down, and adopts a semblance of decorum. He will not appear weak, least of all in public.

“Thanks for your help, detective,” Oswald spits as he passes him, but his wrist is captured, arm twisted behind his back. “ _Ouch!_ What are you doing? Let me go!”

“I’m arresting you, what does it look like? _Folk dancing?_ ”

“On what grounds?” Oswald struggles in the hold, throwing his body forward, back, in any direction he can, hoping one will secure his release. “That gentleman and I were having a friendly little chat. Is that a crime now?”

The detective huffs gruffly, and shoves Oswald against his car, cuffing him with speed Oswald doesn’t expect from one carrying a bit of extra bulk. “Didn’t look too friendly to me…besides, I’m doing the public a service in taking another rat like you off the streets. Looks cleaner already.”

“You will regret this, detective.”

“From where I’m standin’—” the car door is opened, and Oswald is forced inside, “—you’re the one with the look of regret on his face. Now zip that smart mouth shut, or I’ll do it for you.” 

Hauling himself upright, Oswald glares through the back of the detective’s head, and begins plotting his revenge. 

He will pay for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Oswald. All he wanted to do was go home to bed, and now he's going to spend a night or two at the GCPD. Silver lining: not everything that waits for him there is a bad thing.
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	3. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s interview day and Ed is ready to blitz it! That is until he notices a pair of familiar green eyes staring at him from behind the bars of the bullpen...then he’s not quite so confident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me to write, there were sooooo many headaches involved, but damn am I glad it’s done.
> 
> Happy Reading!
> 
> Special shout out to Flux for betaing this for me. Thank you so so much!! 
> 
> Chapter content warning: there is an ableistic comment made (by Bullock), in reference to Ed’s autism. It doesn’t go uncontested, and is swiftly dealt with.

Gotham City Police Department is everything Ed expected it to be, and more. 

Stepping into the building, Ed clasps his hands in front of his chest, and stares, simply stares, as one would at a swanky mansion and not an archaic, metal fortress-slash-police station. It’s almost otherworldly…and in retrospect, for Ed, it is. He’s never stepped foot in a place like this, and it’s not something that can ever be replicated. It’s completely unique. A man shouts, and a distorted echo answers. People move differently here, too, as if unseeing hands drag them this way and that, pulling their focus to one thing and then another. Some run on autopilot with forlorn expressions, and others shift about with determination controlling their gait. 

There's so much to catalogue, process, and compartmentalise: a new area to explore. Ed’s fingers twitch. 

It's not hard for him to imagine where he'd fit in, for it’s a picture he has painted in his mind for many years. There are desks he’s excited to sit at, labs he’s desperate to infuse himself with, files to spend hours ruminating over, cases to work on—it’s perfect, he cannot wait to begin. And yes, perhaps he is getting ahead of himself, as per usual. He _does_ has an interview to pass, and social interactions _aren’t_ his strong suit—but his dreams are almost tangible. He can taste them, feel their familiar comfort caressing his skin. They’ve been waiting for him, in a place where he’ll _finally_ be appreciated.

And find _purpose_.

Inhaling deeply, tasting the undertones of rust in the air, Ed scampers over to the officer seated at the information desk. _Step one: announce my arrival._ The man does not notice his approach; his face is hidden behind the crinkling pages of his newspaper, tufts of hair arching over top, attention elsewhere. The enlarged bold headline reads: Bruce Wayne Turns Five.

_Happy birthday, Mr Wayne. May we both have a blessed day._

“Good morning, Officer, sir,” Ed beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet, strumming the desk with his fingertips. “My name is Edward Nygma—I’d show you proof of identity, only my wallet was recently stolen.”

The officer continues reading; Ed gnaws on his bottom lip, and clears his throat. “Excuse me,” he prods, gently tapping the newspaper, “sorry to interrupt, but—” 

“If you wish to file a report, sit down, and someone will see to you when they can.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I have an appointment scheduled with Captain Sarah Essen.”

With a flutter, the newspaper meets the desk, and the officer stares from beneath his brooding brow. “For a stolen wallet?” 

“No,” Ed laughs, pushing away from the counter, “that’d be silly.” _Why would he assume—_ “Oh! No no no, it’s a _job interview_. I may be joining you fine gals and guys down here at the GCPD. Wouldn’t that be neat?” 

Seconds pass, and with each one Ed begins to lose hope for a positive reaction.

He expected a wide-stretched smile, but none comes. He expected eyes shining in mirth, but they don’t even twinkle. Instead the man’s mouth remains an uncharacteristic grim line amidst his stubble. Almost robotically, the officer’s hand rises upward and points to the row of chairs to his right, his eyes almost as still as a forgotten billboard poster. Ed mashes his lips together.

“Please inform the captain that I have arrived.” Without another word, he walks off, clutching the strap of his messenger bag, to sit in one of the free chairs available, just in time to see an officer enter the building, escorting a rather disgruntled civilian. _No, wait, criminal,_ Ed corrects, catching the glint of handcuffs under the shallow light.

Fiddling with his tie pin, running his fingers over the smooth edges and pointed corners, Ed watches—with a level of intensity and intrigue he usually saves for his textbooks and experiments—the scene play out before him. Three steps into the building, the criminal’s muttered protests die; eight steps see his shoulders slump; thirteen and resignation becomes the only expression left in his arsenal. 

A clean-cut man, wrapped in shades of blue, struts proudly behind him, mouth stretched wide. _Is this what victory is like? Boastful? Thematic?_ Ed wonders, captivated. There appears to be a certain level of dramatisation involved, people calling for recognition, _praise_ , welcoming friendly pats on the back— _which Ed would rather forgo_ —before the curtain falls on their performance and the criminal is safely locked away. It’s entertaining, to say the least, but there's something about the officer's charade that has Ed— _he looks like a peacock!_

Breaking out with a single bark of laughter, Ed slaps a hand to his mouth as his mind works to complete the picture with a fan of dazzling feathers.

_If nothing else, this career path will be both prosperous and entertaining._

Giggling into the curve of his fingers, wondering in fascination what the next display will entail—perhaps a pheasant, a dove, a speckled hen? Birds are some of the most pretentious creatures—Ed’s joviality is cut short at the sight of a pair of _familiar_ green eyes boring into him. His heart jolts, mouth falling open with gasp.

_No._

_What?_

_It can't be!_

Trapped in the holding cell, with a white-knuckled grip on the iron bars, is the man from the library stacks. There’s no mistaking the particular shade of his eyes, or the heat churning inside of them. They glow with silent flames, burning bright, glaring in warning. A threat. A promise. _A riddle?_

_Riddle me this: what does one do when faced with an incomprehensible situation?_

Dread falls into the pit of Ed's stomach, faster than a corpse sinks in cement boots. He wants to look away, run away, hide, flee, move closer, touch him, but he can't. He's frozen in his chair, pinned in place, at the mercy of his emotions.

_What is he doing here? How did he get caught? I was meticulous._

The man in the cage lowers his head, eyes narrowing to slits; Ed’s gawks back, a deer gazing into headlights. The very nature of the silent exchange he finds himself on the receiving end of is utterly lost to him. Ed’s never been adept at reading people. People reading involves personal biases. He doesn’t like biases. 

It matters little in the end—the subtle shifts flicker like silent films, image incomplete, so Ed stews on his postulations, instead.

_His face is scratched. How did that happen? He looks dehydrated. Is he dehydrated? Did he report me? I don’t deserve that. I was helpful. Will my job interview end in my incarceration? Will I be thrown into that cell beside him? What—_

There are too many questions, and Ed requires answers.

Jumping to his feet, fingers curling into his palms, Ed flicks his head over his shoulders, then furtively scurries forward. The sound of blood pumping through his veins washes out the low hum of the precinct, and encases him in a small, protective bubble. Stopping one foot shy of the grime-coated, nausea-inducing prison cells— _they’re filthy, that has to be some form of health violation_ —Ed ducks his head and whispers, “Did you lie?”

Oh, how strange it feels to be in close proximity to this man again. When last they met, Ed had an extra tongue in his mouth, and a body pressed closely against his own. A memory he has _actively_ replayed many times. It’s unforgettable, for a multitude of reasons: dead body, first kiss, stolen wallet, dead body. Blinking, Ed watches the man's mouth move, pallid lips drawing taut, curving to expose teeth and the tip of his tongue, and can’t help but recall the way they slotted against his own, claiming his mouth in a heated—wait…he’s speaking.

“—here. You’ll pay for this!”

“I’m sorry,” Ed apologises, searching for the threads of the conversation. “What is it I am paying for?” _I don’t have my new bank card yet._

“What—” the short, messy fellow echoes. “Oh, you think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Ed straightens at the praise, despite its forceful annunciation. “When I get out of here, I’ll show you _what_!”

“Okay.” Nodding, tight-lipped, Ed agrees. Whatever it is, it sounds important. Who is he to argue against it? “And that will be—”

A hand lands on Ed’s shoulder; he flinches, his bubble pops. The sounds of the room flood over him in waves, each one creating a new auditory distraction—crisp shuffling of paper, hoove-like clomping against the concrete, a growing murmur of indistinguishable voices. Ed grits his teeth together. _This is why people shouldn’t touch people without permission, unless there’s a good reason. It’s a rule._ Bowing his head, he inhales a few deep breaths and collects himself, managing quite well until the person who intruded upon him speaks. 

“You’re not supposed to be over here,” the cop, _Joe_ , grumbles, indignantly, from beneath a unkempt moustache.

Ed balks, movements becoming mechanic, surprise and fear muddling his brain. Ten minutes inside the precinct, and Ed’s already causing problems. How was he supposed to know civilians aren’t permitted near the holding cells? There’s no sign glaring in warning. The path was clear, unobstructed.

“I—I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware. I was just admiring the…the—” green eyes meet his from behind vertical bars, “—the construction of the cage. Yes, _that_ ,” he nods, swatting a palm against the eroded edges; it’s bitter to the palate. “They’re very sturdy, excellent craftsmanship. I’ll be going now.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rushes back to his seat, feeling his cheeks warm. 

He would have given _anything_ for an extra thirty seconds alone with the green-eyed man. Now, all he can do is steal furtive glances from the middle of the room, and try and buckle down on his own transparency. If Ed could delete him from his mind, it’d be easier. The Library Murderer has garnered him nothing but lapsing confusion since the moment they met—he is a rock in Ed shoe, bothersome and perceptible, but not something he’s ready to part with, just yet.

There’s still more to discover.

Ed is still buried up to his ears in embarrassment when a pair of pointed toe shoes enters his peripheral, and he hears their owner call his name. Curling his fingers around his wrist, wishing he could hit pause on his day for a few more moments, he rises to his feet and steps forward. “Yes, can I help you?” 

"I'm Captain Sarah Essen," the woman says, offering her hand. She looks frazzled, her outward appearance crumpled; Ed relates. He’s had a very eventful week. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, we’ve been rather swamped as of late. I hope you can understand.”

Shuffling on his feet, transferring his weight from one foot to the other, Ed stares at her, at her hand, at her badge and the wrinkles in her shirt, at the shallow creases near her eyes, and hums. He decides he likes her— _she seems friendly enough, almost in a matronly way_ —but he doesn’t take her hand. She’s staring too hard. 

_Handshakes are optional, aren’t they?_

His extended silence must have been too off putting for the captain, as with a puzzling expression she begins to lower her arm, and her posture changes. _They are optional, right?_ Not wanting to pass on pleasantries and begin this interview with one foot out the door, Ed suppresses his discomfort, replaces it with zeal, and scrambles forward to snatch up her hand. 

“It’s nice to meet you, too—nice to meet you,” he corrects himself, with a jolt, noticing his fumble. “I can’t tell you how _thrilled_ I am to be here.” Ed continues to shake Essen’s hand, counting the time elapsing. Three seconds, five seconds, eight seconds. _Can I let go now?_ Uncertain, he resorts to babbling. 

“I’ve read so many of your old reports. You’re practically famous to those studying at Gotham University…well, to those studying forensic science or law,” he says, with a laugh. With any luck, his future work may become prime examples for the next generation, his legacy, and proof of his achievements passed on in printed word. It’s all one can hope for in the end—a tangible way to be remembered. 

“You had—and I assume you still _do_ have—quite the the success rate. I look forward to—” The perplexing expression that passes over Captain Essen’s face for a second time sees Ed snapping back to himself, realising he still has her hand clasped firmly in his own. “ _Oh_ , I’m sorry, forgive me,” he apologises, rigidly locking his arm at his sides. 

_Way to make a first impression, Edward. You were much too invasive. Fourteen seconds is too long._

“No need to apologise, Mr Nygma. Your enthusiasm is like a breath of fresh air,” Captain Essen says, smiling politely. Her dark curls, wound like tiny coiled springs, sway lightly as she flicks her head in the direction of her office. “Let's continue this conversation elsewhere. I do believe you came here for an interview.”

“I did. Yes. Let’s.” _I plan to blitz it!_

☂

Oswald is cold, his bones hurt, his stomach is halfway through digesting itself, and he pushed passed the threshold of _tired_ over a day ago. A few nights in a god forsaken holding cell would do that to anyone. He’s irritated, and longs to go home, sick of being caged like an animal on display.

The company isn’t anything of note either; it mostly consists of old, stumbling drunkards, and petty self-loathing criminals, neither of which are the most skilled conversationalists, nor anyone Oswald is keen on engaging with. 

The most _worthwhile_ conversation he’s taken part in in days was with that bubbling fool, _Edward,_ who was barely present for half of it!

Oswald stares him down as he enters the captain's office, praying that he isn’t here because of a guilty conscience, hoping that he rethinks whatever it is he’s about to do. Oswald doesn’t need another thorn in his side, he creates enough of them himself—but at least those are able to be manipulated to some degree. That man, that stupidly handsome, convivial nuisance, comes with a set of variables Oswald has yet to weigh, and that makes him a threat, albeit a _distracting_ one.

Huffing, Oswald slaps his palm against the cage, hating the feeling of powerlessness coursing through him. There is no solution to find here, no way of escape. All he can do is wait…but he is not a patient man. _Don’t make this worse for me, Edward._

**¿?**

Captain Essen is an amazing woman, but of course Ed knows that already—he did do his research. With a halo of sunlight fractaling around her head, and an attentive gaze, she asks all the questions one would expect to hear in an interview, such as: _Where did you study, Mr Nygma? What do you hope to get out of a job here at the GCPD?_ and _Do you have any interests and hobbies outside of work and study?_

Nodding, toes wiggling in his shoes, Ed launches into his tale, glossing over his unpleasant childhood—during his research he discovered that this wasn’t something employers required information on. Talking in a mixture of flapping gestures and babbling words, Ed makes certain to touch on his time at university, his most engaging classes, and the forensic conference he was fortunate enough to attend—then, without pause, he barrels into a long-winded discussion about his love of trivia shows, video games, puzzles, and riddles. 

Surprisingly enough, the interview goes rather smoothly and Ed begins to feel optimistic about his prospects—but then the dreaded question comes, the one which makes his heart stutter in his chest, the one he wouldn’t have had any trouble answering a few days ago. 

The Captain is still smiling, finger trailing over a sheet of notes on her desk, as she asks, “Do you have a criminal record, or is there anything in your history that would be pertinent for me to know, something that may compromise your position here?”

 _I buried a body a three nights and two days ago. Is that what you would like to hear? I didn’t want to do it. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t kill him._ “No, I’m clean—squeaky clean, like soap. Cleaner, even.” _He’s out in the forest, wrapped in tartan blankets. My shoulders still hurt from all the shovelling. It took two hours. I set down wild flowers._

Ed tries not to fidget, for fear of looking guilty, but it goes against his every impulse. With a bead of sweat tickling its way down his spine, he lifts a hand and twists and twiddles his tie pin. “Do people ever answer _yes_ to that question?”

“If they did, it’d make my job a whole lot easier,” Essen says, sighing, then with a sweep of her palm, she slides her papers to the side and interlocks her fingers together. Ed longs to ask her what she meant by that, needing her to elaborate, but his window of opportunity passes him by. “Mr Nygma—”

“Ed.”

“—Ed, you do understand, if all goes well here today, and you are hired, you’ll be working on cases that may be traumatising in nature. Do you think you’ll be able to handle that?”

Eyes drifting up to the lights faintly humming above him, Ed thinks over her question. 

_No_ , is the obvious answer, no he _won’t_ have a problem with that. He’s had his hands _on_ and _in_ a number of bodies with no qualms. In fact, it was quite the opposite, he felt _invigorated_ , and ever curious. He wanted to dig deeper into each corpse, transverse every nerve and vein, fiddle with every organ. The manner of death doesn’t concern him, only the stories they leave behind. 

With his fingers gripping the balls of his knees, Ed leans forward as if is about to share a heavily guarded secret. He wants to prove he can do this, show her that he’s more than smart, and skilled enough to take on the role. Licking his lips, he optimistically asks, “Did you know that like fingerprints, the print of a tongue and frontal sinuses are unique to a person?” 

Lines form between Essen’s brows, deep ones. She stares at him blankly, blinking a little too fast for comfort. 

Feeling his lungs shrivel into raisins, Ed holds his breath and his posture wilts as he waits for the comment—the _odd_ one—the one which tends to follow quickly after an excited outburst. He waits. He waits and—

“I’m going to take that as a _yes_ ,” Essen says, almost in _offering_ , and Ed’s head bobbles vigorously.

“Yes, it’s a yes,” he confirms, in a rush of breath. _Stick to the script, Ed. Stop digging yourself a hole._ Reaching for his messenger bag, fiddling with the buckle, Ed swallows thickly and collects himself. “I—I have something to say.” 

Behind him, the door to the office is thrown open in a flurry of movement, glass rattling inside the frame. Ed _yelps_. Palm to chest, fingers splayed out over his breastbone and racing heart, he peers back over his shoulder, and sees a beefy man, with a thick-set neck enter the room. The stench of alcohol clouds him like an aura. Ed doesn’t like that.

“Detective Bullock, when the door is closed it _generally_ means that I am not available, so unless this is an emergency, I’m sure you can wait quietly for a few moments,” Essen reprimands, sharply, in way that makes Ed easily believe she had addressed this issue several times in the past. _He didn’t even knock._

“Cap, in the name of all that is holy, tell me why—”

Somehow a simple narrowing of her eyes makes the detective fall silent. _Is that a tactic that works on most people?_

“Sorry, Edward, what was it you were going to say?”

“Oh, yes.” Rifling through his bag, Ed withdraws a file and thrusts it in the captain’s direction. “I have autism. I’m autistic,” he says, after taking a deep breath. “Most of the information in this file pertains only to myself, and how I typically behave, but there _are_ some more generalised statements in there for further elucidation. Sections one-through-three touch on—”

“You’re considering hiring some _nutcase_ to work here? You that desperate, Captain?”

Heat flares through Ed’s chest, his hands curl into fists. “Autistic is _not_ synonymous with insanity, _Detective_.” _I’m not a…nutcase._ “Would you like me to make you a file, too?” _If anyone needs an education, he’s proved it to be him._

The detective’s lips connect in a tight line.

“Bullock, if you say something like that again, I will make certain you are demoted to meter-maid. Comments such as that will not be tolerated in my precinct, do I make myself clear?” Bullock glares at her, and it appears as if he’s halfway through chewing off his tongue in order to keep himself silent. “Mr Nygma here has all the necessary credentials; he graduated top of his class, a year earlier than his peers, and frankly, seems like just the man we need.”

Ed beams, straightening to his full height, hurtful comments forgotten. “Does that mean I have the job?”

Her eyebrows raise, and her head bobs. “Yes, Edward, you got the job. When do you think you’ll be available to start?”

“Now,” he says, hands balled beside his head in victory. _I did it! I actually did it!_

“No, you don’t need—”

“You asked when I am available. I’m available now,” Ed repeats.

The captain shakes her head, and laughs under breath. “Very well, welcome to the GCPD, Mr Nygma.”

The following few minutes blur together: the grumbling detective leaves with a heavy foot, Essen asks a few more routine questions and has Ed fills out the necessary paperwork, then offers him a tour of the station. Exiting her office, Ed removes a small notebook from his pocket, and begins to jot down notes, about anything and everything Essen says. 

He has so much to learn, and all the time in the world to do so.

Listening to the captain with one ear, Ed taps his pen on his chin and trains his gaze up to the rafters in the ceiling, following the path of the softly-glowing down lights, and halts halfway through his next stride. In the semi-shadows perched upon a shield, sits a _gargoyle_ , smiling broadly in what can only be described as _sadistic pleasure._ Ed smiles back at it. It’s different, slightly disturbing, but also fascinating. A creature of mystery, not too dissimilar to his _friend_ in the cage, albeit living more freely, even if it is made of stone.

Ed’s eyes drifts back to him, to the man who has yet to leave the undercurrent of his thoughts. He hasn’t moved. He’s leant up against the bars as if they are what’s keeping him upright, rather than the muscles in his legs. Weary face hidden, but not obscured, the man cocks his head to the side and Ed mimics the action, participating in their game of chades, without knowing _why._

 _Does it matter?_

They are from separate worlds, exploring opposite paths; realistically they should never have met…and yet, Ed is _almost_ thankful they did. Excluding— _or_ _including_ —the murder and theft, there’s something about the other man that has him mesmerised. It’s as if questions he’s never thought to ask himself, _or ask anyone_ , have now been uncovered, and he wants to discover the answer to them all. 

They flood in in waves, each crashing over him, one after the other. _Why is my Kiss Thief locked up? What was he arrested for? Does anyone know his name? Or his interests…outside makeup and murder, that is? He kissed me. I liked it. I’m not sure I should have._

Tapping Captain Essen on the shoulder with the tip of his pen, Ed asks the one question he has yet to be able to let go of. If anyone can offer him sound advice, it’d be a police captain. She knows how the world works, and judging by the ring on her finger, relationships too.

“What does it mean when you can’t stop thinking about… _something_?” 

Essen halts her stride and turns her head in Ed’s direction; the coils of her hair bounce up and down, like little keratin slinkies attached at the crown. After a few empty seconds, filled with shuffling on Ed’s part, the corners of her mouth twitch into the beginning of a grin. “Well, it depends on what you can’t stop thinking about. In most cases, it either means it’s something good, or something bad. Is there a reason you’re asking this?”

 _There’s always a reason._ “No, yes. Nothing bad,” he reassures her, repeatedly clicking his pen. How does he hint at something without being too obvious? What words are the best ones to choose? One mistake, one small slip up will put him under the microscope, and it’s far too soon for that—he has yet to have the chance to stand over one here.

_Say something, Edward, you’re acting too suspicious._

_She’s going to start believing you did something illegal._

_I did do something illegal!_

“It’s—it might be—you see, I have this… _friend_?” Ed’s throat tightens. “Forgive me, this isn’t appropriate. I should leave—explore the labs, on my own. Thank you.” Shoving his notebook in his back pocket, Ed reaches forward to shake her hand. They’re warm, not clammy, unlike Ed’s own. The skin around her fingers show no sign of being nibbled on, unlike Ed’s own. Her nails—her nails are unlike Ed’s own too, but that’s a given.

Not wanting to linger, Ed slinks away, shoulders folded forward, and flies down the stairs. A heavy pulse pounds in his temples. He needs space to breathe, think, process; all things he’d rather do without an audience. But he finds himself halting as if he has just slammed into a brick wall, or streetlight— _it wouldn’t be the first time_ —when a tingle runs up the back of his spine, and into the base of his skull, fizzling out over his brain. 

Puzzled, Ed looks over to the cells, to the man who ensnared some part of him and nibbles on his bottom lip. _I can’t leave him there. He should be free—preferably, but not lawfully._

Much to Ed’s surprise, and slight concern, it barely takes any effort on his part to make that happen.

Deciding to test his luck, he makes his way back to Essen and comments on the fact that he overheard that man—“the one in the makeup and ripped clothes”—offhandedly state that he has been held against his will for three days, without charges having been pressed. _He didn’t say it. It’s not a fact. He never said anything of the sort_. The captain didn’t appear to like the news. She shouts at the bull-like detective, her hair taking on the appearance of whips in her anger, coiling like vipers, ready to strike.

Then Oswald is released. 

Oswald. 

Oswald Cobblepot. 

Like an owl enshrouded by the night, Ed stills in the darkened corridor and watches him from afar, wishing he could be beside him, near him, in his presence. He has unknowingly hosted a starring role in Ed’s thoughts for days; whether he is brushing his teeth or lying in bed, scrubbing his dishes or washing down his body, those green eyes—the kind of green that pushes its way through the piles of gritty snow to remind the world that spring is coming—are always _watching_. Ed _needs_ to speak with him again.

Sensing an opportunity, grasping it before it passes him by with the tick of the second hand, Ed nabs Oswald by the crook of his arm, drags him down the corridor and into the nearby lab, before he can make his exit.

…and then they are alone—Oswald with his back to the door, lips pursed; Ed wanting to pry them open and discover what it is he’s holding back.

“So, you weren’t here to squeal on me,” Oswald says, apathetically.

Amusement curls Ed’s lips. “No, quite the opposite. I'm the newly hired forensic analyst.” He stands proudly, jutting his chin up just a fraction, basking in his achievement. Oh, how pleased he feels to share this information with someone. It’s not as though there are many people outside the building who would be keen on hearing it. There isn’t anyone. He has no people.

“You never told me you planned on working for the GCPD.” Oswald brushes past Ed to scout the room, something Ed should be doing, too, but Ed tracks after him instead, following three steps behind him.

“I don’t understand what difference that would have made…plus, I didn’t exactly have many opportunities to talk the last time, without you grumbling at me, that is.”

When Oswald pauses, Ed fears he’s made a mistake in voicing himself so forwardly, but the following noise of acknowledgement washes away that concern.

Speaking of washing…. Extracting himself from Oswald’s side, Ed strolls off to wash his hands, slip on a pair of gloves, and grab disinfect and cotton balls out of the medical kit on the wall. Then he’s back in Oswald’s orbit, inches from his chest, smiling tight lipped.

“I’m going to clean your wound now,” he states, shaking the bottle in Oswald’s face, before coating the cotton with the sharp smelling liquid. The smell burns; Ed grimaces. 

Hovering inches away from the graze, but making no move to touch him without permission, Ed waits for the green light; Oswald eventually inclines his head. Inhaling slowly, feeling his chest expand, Ed brushes Oswald’s bangs out of his eyes—it’s not required, but is necessary in order to sate his own curiosity—and tentatively tends to the wound, taking care not to press too firmly, but with enough pressure that the area is cleansed of any residual dirt and grime.

Standing intimately close, Ed lingers, fingers trailing across Oswald’s skin, more exploratory, than anything else. Oswald doesn’t take his eyes off of him; he stares unblinkingly, lips curled inwards, as Ed traces the curve of his cheekbone, trailing his fingertips down the line of his jaw. Heart cantering in his chest, he shakily meets the corner of Oswald’s lips and—

Wrist encircled, he freezes, staring owlishly at the man before him, briefly wondering if Oswald can feel the way his heart rate triples from such a small touch. Ed licks his lips. 

“Oswald,” he whispers, not wanting to break the spell, but needing to speak. “Can you kiss me again?”

“W-why?” Oswald splutters. _He asks that a lot._

“Captain Essen said if you can’t stop thinking about something, it’s either a good thing or a bad thing, and I’d like to confirm my suspicions.”

Oswald releases Ed’s wrist, and shakes his head; Eds heart sinks—but then then sound of a low laugh reaches his ears. _What's so funny? Did I say something wrong?_

“It’s for science,” Ed blurts.

“Science?” Oswald queries, thrusting his shoulders back, eyebrows comically shooting up.

“Well, _yes_.” _Is it?_ “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“So I’m a lab rat? A tool for your manipulation? A way for you to _sate_ your _curiosity_?” Oswald’s words register in Ed’s brain in a way that makes him hyper aware of his own skin. It’s as if a spool of silken ribbon has been coiled around his body, and is slowly being drawn free. Ed swallows.

Even though his brain is empty, his mouth continues to work. “No, in this scenario, _I_ would be. It’s _my_ reactions I’m cataloguing.”

Oswald grins, one side of his mouth higher than the other. His face looks brighter somehow, the sickly paleness vanishing in an instant. “You’ve been thinking about kissing me?” 

_Almost constantly._ “A little. Enough to warrant further analysis.” The emotions in Oswald’s eyes are conflicting. His gaze is soft, the softest thing Ed’s ever had directed his way, but within them his irises flicker with flashes of an electrical storm. 

Shivering, skin prickling underneath the lines of his attire, Ed tries to smother down his impulse to crash his lips to Oswald. It’s all his body is screaming at him to do—kiss him, taste him, experience that wonderful sensation again. He’s never felt such a drive in his life…but Oswald is silent, and _his_ silence is unnerving. “I-If you would rather not, that’s understandable, and okay,” Ed adds, turning away to hide his disappointment, snapping his gloves off. “I mean, that _does_ depend on what your definition of—”

“Ed—” A palm rests on Ed’s bicep, heat worming through the fibres of his clothes, dancing over his skin. With his eyes closed, Ed savours the feeling, commits it to memory: the weight, the sensation, the gentle firmness. “I didn’t say no.”

“O-oh. Okay. _Okay,_ ” Ed needlessly says, fumbling for words, for thoughts, for _anything_. “Now?”

Guided forward by the hand around his wrist, Ed’s breath grows shallow. Oswald doesn’t answer him, too busy scrutinising Ed like an equation, or a specimen beneath a microscope. Mouth flooding with moisture, Ed swallows, and the fingers of his free hand twitch. _Is he—_

Ed doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought, it’s impossible to, especially when Oswald’s hand is cupping the curve of his jaw, thumb shifting in small, soothing circles. Falling still, Eds eyebrows narrow, and cotton wool replaces the space where his brain once lay. He blinks—tries to blink. It feels unnatural. Mismatched. Uncoordinated. His body fails to operate properly.

Oswald blinks up at him and another wave of colour makes home on his face, settling in his cheeks and lips—and then those lips are on Ed’s, pressing softly; Ed presses back, slotting himself closer, _needing_ him closer, and his eyes droop closed. Unlike the previous time, there’s no rush to their kiss, no agenda, no barely concealed body, or guard to distract. No, this is different. _Very_ different. Even Ed’s usual mode of hurrying from one thing to the next is suspended; he has no wish for the kiss to end. 

When a tongue traces the curve of his lips, and gains easy entry, Ed slaps his hand down on Oswald’s shoulder and grips onto him for support. His breath gets trapped in his throat, in his lungs, until he is forced to exhale a groan which is matched with fervour. 

Chasing forward, another sound escapes Ed’s mouth, one he cannot define. It’s high pitched: a small croak entwined within a whimper. Every brush of their lips creates a feeling of light and warmth inside Ed’s body: his fingers tingle, his toes shift and curl, his stomach flips and flops, and below that, he feels the slight stirring of something which makes him flush. 

Bottom lip nipped, Ed breathlessly exhales Oswald’s name, and the muscles in his legs somehow develop an onset case of atrophy. They’re shaking, he’s shaking, vibrating, as a hand slithers down his chest, and up his back, following the curve of his spine. This time he moans, gasps, very nearly crumbles to the floor. _Oh, gosh._ He wasn’t prepared for the sensory tactility. Kissing is—

A bang sounding in the corridor outside the lab sees them separating faster than a bolt of lightning. Ed may as well have been struck with it, his heart is pounding so fast, body overheated from the inside out. 

Hand to chest, he bows forward and releases an adrenaline-fueled giggle. What a rush—the kissing, not the interruption. He could have done without the interruption. Perhaps his place of employment isn’t the best place for such a wonderful, sensual activity. 

“So, did you get your answer?” Oswald asks when Ed’s laughter subsides. He’s perched on the edge of the desk, tapping the tip of his shoe against the floor.

“ _What_?” Ed squeaks, querulously, head snapping up. _What answer? Wh—right, there was a point to this._ “Um, give me a second.” Closing his eyes, Ed checks in with his body. There’s a fluttering ball in his lower stomach, his heart rate is elevated, he’s warm all over, and his hands are clammy. 

There’s only one thing this can be. 

“You make me nervous,” Ed announces, drawing a baffled look from Oswald…but then Oswald snorts and begins to shake his head, tutting softly.

“Ed,” he begins, eyes shining in mirth, “that’s not nerves.” He pauses to rake his gaze up and down Ed’s body, rather pointedly, almost _tangibly,_ as if to make a point. “At least not entirely.” 

_“_ Of course it is. What else could it b—oh, _oh_!” Embarrassment floods Ed’s veins so quickly, he fears his head will burst open like thermometers in old cartoons. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—can you stop laughing at me, please? It’s a _normal_ bodily function.”

“Glad to see you’re catching on,” Oswald teases.

“Stop that. I liked it—our kiss.”

“You like almost getting caught.”

“No I—do I? I won’t deny there is a thrill involved, but that's likely attributed to—” Ed touches his lips and looks up from beneath his lashes, smiling coyly. He wants to do it again, and again, and again, and again, in a place where they don’t have to stop, where there are no interruptions but the call for breath. The GCPD isn’t ideal, and neither is the library. In the back of his mind, Ed begins to plot possible locations for future reference, snapping out of his mind long enough to see Oswald begin to gather his belongings. He doesn’t have much, only the clear bag of items one of the officers handed to him before Ed snatched him away.

“Oswald, can I see you again?”

“Why?” He asks it softer this time, less accusatorily, and Ed finds himself studied again. 

Nudging his smudged glasses up his nose, Ed tilts his head to the side. “Because—” _Because I want to. No, that doesn’t feel profound enough,_ “—because you’re fascinating, interesting, different. I like you.” 

Oswald gapes, seemingly caught off guard, but only for a second. He snaps back to himself quickly, in a way Ed wishes he could do, and steps forward with an outstretched hand. “Give me your phone,” he orders, and Ed quickly complies, fishing it from his pocket.

“You’re not planning to steal from me again, are you?”

Oswald’s eyes flick to Ed’s, and he smirks, fingers tapping away. “I think I’m well past stealing from you.” He returns his attention back to the phone, adding in what Ed assumes to be his number, before snapping it closed. “In fact, in a show of good faith, I’ll even give you your wallet back.” 

…and he does. Along with Ed’s phone, his wallet is returned to him, too. Ed clutches them both to his chest, hugging them closely, thinking of them not as his own belongings, but as gifts. They hold a different meaning now.

“Thank you,” Ed whispers, nodding to himself as he pockets his items. “But, you didn’t say yes.”

“I believe it was implied.” 

_Was it?_ Ed gnaws on the inner side of his lip, and cards his fingers through his hair, watching as Oswald makes his way to the door. He wants to escort him out, but he has enough sense to know that isn’t the best idea he’s ever had.

“The answer’s _yes_ , Ed. Oh, and congratulations on the job,” Oswald voices from over his shoulder, and with that Ed’s feet are no longer glued to the floor. He darts forward, jumps in between Oswald and the door, and with a snap, throws his arms around him. 

“I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the stress this chapter piled on me, I’m so happy with how it turned out. Next chapter should see Oswald meeting Fish for the first time, so buckle in for that! 
> 
> Also, thank you to all those who continue to leave comments. I love you all so much.
> 
> Till next time.


	4. The Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald believes that hopes and dreams are useless, that only by sheer will alone, could anyone make it in a city like Gotham. Those beliefs are tested as he finds his world shaken.
> 
>    
>  _“Whether I believe her or not, is hardly my concern. She asked to meet you before the end of the week, and I assured her I’d pass on the message. If you checked your phone, you’d know this.” Their gazes connect and Oswald refuses to blink, not because he can’t, but because if he was to die at the hands of Fish Mooney, he wants Cherry to remember him as he is now: angry, furious...verging on stupefied at the direction his life is suddenly taking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank any of you enough for your warm responses to this fic. You have all put the biggest smile on my face, and I intend to reply to every comment asap. Thank you so much!
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter!

The sun rarely ever shines in Gotham City; it shields itself behind cumulus covers, rays breaking through with a tease of warmth, of hope, of light, before thick logs of cloud roll in and paint the town grey. 

Oswald stopped looking up many years ago. He stopped waiting, too, waiting for the sun, or for a change in fortune. After all, waiting for something that may never come, hoping and praying for something more, leads only to disappointment. 

So, now he looks ahead: to his future, to things within his power, to his own source of light and warmth.

Currently, that is home—specifically his bed.

With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders curved forward, Oswald trudges through the shadows of the city, up and down the grey belt-like streets, and over the cracked raised pavement, feeling almost thankful his phone is flat for now he doesn't have to listen to the stream of panicked voicemails his mother undoubtedly left him, or read the text messages from Cherry asking why he missed two nights work. 

Better yet, he doesn’t have to scramble at every phantom vibration and whistle, thinking, just maybe, a message from Edward may have popped up on screen.

It’s almost a blessing—if blessings cause inner turmoil. 

Oswald couldn’t believe how utterly _stupid_ he was. 

Who in their right mind would find it pertinent to give their number to a man who could destroy their entire life in less than a minute? 

Who is cynical enough to believe that that charming, overly enthusiastic man _wouldn’t_ do it, even if given half a chance? 

_I am. I am that idiot._

Exhaling a sigh that removes every trace of air in his chest, Oswald scrubs his hands down his face and through his splayed fingers, glowers at a car impatiently honking at him. He has half a mind to stop midway across the road, to cause someone else a little misery, to pull out his flat phone and begin a one-sided conversation with himself, but this is Gotham, and he is almost home. 

Arriving at his front door, after slogging himself up two flights of stairs, Oswald barely has a chance to lift his hand before the door flies open with a gust of wind, and his mother’s face enters his bleary line of sight. 

“ _Oswald_ ,” she shrieks; her clammy palms land on either side of his face, drawing him close—he grimaces, jaw grit—then she overdramatically flings herself away, bracelets tinkling and sliding down her arm as the living room becomes a stage for her theatrics. “Why you no call your mother in all this time? You wound a poor old lady’s heart, ignoring her like this.”

“Hello, mother. Nice to see you, too,” Oswald mutters, smacking his lips together, kicking the door closed behind him. There’ll be no free show for his neighbours tonight. “Might I trouble you for a glass of water?”

“Oh, and now he requests water, like I’m some—” She freezes. Her eyes widen then narrow, then with a surge of energy he hasn’t seen her use in years, she crosses the room to grab at his face again, bony fingers carelessly prodding at the graze carved into his skin. “Oswald, my darling, w-what happened to you? And your jacket? No, no, no. You tell your mother who did this.”

“It’s nothing,” Oswald grumbles, tugging himself away. “I was foolish, for reasons I cannot explain. My mind was elsewhere, and someone saw fit to take advantage of that.”

“Those bullies,” his mother spits. Oswald would like to say it’s a euphemism, only it’s not. She spits and stomps on the speck with her foot. Some things never change. “I don’t know why you stay at that bar night after night. No good is found there.”

_How else would we make ends meet? We live in the sewers of the city, there is no other option. I do what I must...and what I enjoy._ Taking her hand in his own Oswald squeezes, gently, but the laughter lines in her face are too deep with worry. 

“Mark my words, mother,” he begins, with conviction lacing his tone, “one day... _one day,_ there will be no more bullies. One day, we will live like _royalty_. One day, we will have a house with rooms we never enter, more money than we can count, ceilings we can _barely_ see, and—” 

“A castle,” she says, eyes lighting up with her own fanciful dreams.

“Yes, a castle.”

“You’re a good son.”

Mashing his lips together, Oswald pulls her into a hug and hides his expression over the crook of her shoulder. _Would you still believe that if you knew I was recently arrested?_

☂

Following the conversation with his mother, Oswald promptly passes out in the comforts of his unmade bed. Frankly, he’s amazed he made it that far, his head felt like it was full of lead, his legs weak and unsteady, and hours prior to his release, he lost full autonomy of his extremities.

Sleep was needed, yet he could only indulge in a few hours.

Through bleary eyes, Oswald squints—no, glares, at his phone, feeling compelled to toss it to the other side of the room when his alarm honks in his ear, shocking him awake. 

_Screw responsibility,_ he sneers, blindly slapping his hand down, hoping to hit the one button which would silence that ungodly sound—but he fails, or his phone refuses to obey, either way, Oswald is forced to sit up and see to it directly. 

Only, after he silences it, he doesn’t collapse back down onto the crumpled ball of his blankets to snore the rest of the night away, for there’s a message on the screen, several of them, in fact, but only one is worth staying awake for. 

Tapping a button, Oswald grimaces, top lip curled.

Oswald reads the message, again. 

  


_Tool of thief, toy of queen._

_Always used to be unseen._

_Sign of joy, sign of sorrow._

_Giving all likeness borrowed._

_What am I?_

_\- E. Nygma_

  


Eyes flicking back and forth over each line, Oswald tries and fails to decode Edward’s message. What the hell is this even supposed to mean? Tool of thief: hands? Lockpicks? Likeness borrowed—what? _What?!_

  


_What happened to hello?_

_\- O. C_

  


_Hi, Oswald._

_\- E. Nygma_

  


_Okay, good start._ Oswald smiles shallowly and brushes his hair out of his eyes, thinking over the best way to attack this particular conundrum. _Directness_ is what he settles on. It doesn’t work for all circumstances, but he has a feeling it will when it comes to Edward, for he’s responded well enough to it in the past. 

  


_Hello, Ed. Would you like to explain the nature of your message?_

_\- O. C_

  


_Do you know the answer?_

_\- E. Nygma_

  


_Why that—_ Oswald snaps his phone closed and curses under breath. 

No. _No_ , he doesn’t know the answer. _No-one_ would. No-one would care for it either; Oswald surely doesn’t, but he can’t get the bloody thing off his mind. It taunts him as he showers and readies for his night. It worms itself into every thought as he makes his way to _The Hole_. Fortunately, the rambunctious noise stemming from Cherry’s rot-infested hovel provides some relief...and an even bigger distraction.

Squeezing his way into the overstuffed club, Oswald is met with a wall of _heat_ , as if the sun itself has been confined to one small space. Tugging at his collar, he’s scarcely able to breathe with the way the sardines of people greedily siphon every molecule of oxygen out of the air, leaving little to spare for himself. 

Suffice to say, _The Hole_ is finally flourishing—and that’s a thought that fills Oswald with pride, even with the taste of sweat coating his tongue. 

“So, when do I get my cut of the profits?” Oswald asks Cherry, after slipping behind the bar, into the one place that offers him the freedom of movement. “I think it’s only fair.”

Cherry jolts at the sound of his voice and does a double take. “O-Oswald?”

“Last time I checked.” 

“You’re here?” she says, mouth hanging open to exposing the line of her teeth.

“You employ me; is my presence that much of a shock?” 

“No. Of course not.”

He didn’t expect to hit the nail on the head with one offhanded question, but the way she begins to avoid him while continuing to steal furtive glances at him throughout the night, confirms that. _He no longer belongs_. Oswald seethes. 

For two years he’s worked under her, served her disrespectful customers, offered her support he didn’t have to offer anyone, and now, _now_ she wants to do away with him. 

Like he’s nothing. 

Like he’s trash. 

Like he isn’t the reason she has _everything_.

The glass in Oswald’s hand shatters: beer splashes over his fingers and trickles down his wrist. _I’ll show her,_ he thinks _._ If Cherry is going to fire him, then he’ll give her a reason to do so.

Teeth clenched, Oswald snatches up a stained dishcloth and pats himself down, intentionally ignoring the irritated ingrate before him, demanding he pour another drink.

“Will you shut your damn mouth and wait one measly second?” Oswald growls when the oafish man doesn’t.

“I’m missin’ the damned fight. How long does it—”

Actions fueled by fury, vision narrowing as if he was staring down the eye of a needle, Oswald shoots his hand forward, snatches up a fistful of the man’s thinning locks and drags his head under the spout.

“If your drink is so important to you, then here.” Heartbeat drumming so loud in his ears, Oswald feels a thrill _rush_ through him as amber liquid begins to foam over the spluttering man’s face, drowning out his wheezing voice.

“Oswald, let him go. What do you think you are doing?” Cherry hisses, throwing herself over the counter to tear him away; a handful of hair comes with him.

“I _was_ teaching your customer a little thing called _respect_ ,” Oswald snaps, glowering up at his boss, face pinched. “Perhaps that is something you should put into practice, too!” 

“Oh, that’s rich coming from—” Cherry cuts herself off and blinks slowly, then with a roll of her eyes, she hauls Oswald out from behind the bar, by the collar of his shirt, and into the nearby storeroom, insensitive to his spluttered protests.

“Let. Go. Of. Me. What is the meani—” 

“ _Listen_ —”

“I will not!”

They continue to speak over the top of each other for a few tense minutes, spit flying as fast as spat curses, before Cherry inevitably puts a stop to it. 

“Shut up, Oswald!”

“Then start _explaining_ ,” Oswald howls, patience wearing thin, “right now.” 

“I’ve been _trying_ , but you went all _Hurricane Oswald_ on me and—nevermind. Nevermind. Fish Mooney paid me a visit,” she shares, eyes landing everywhere and anywhere, except on Oswald’s face. 

A weight falls from Oswald’s throat into his stomach and he _swears_ he feels his blood run cold. “What does this have to do with me?”

“News of the fight club travelled quickly, despite my best efforts, and she caught wind of it.”

Waving his hand through the air, in sharp circular motions, Oswald says, “ _And?_ ”

“And, I confessed that it was your idea.”

“You did... _what?!_ ” Oswald roars, face burning.

“Well, it’s not like I’d put the blame on my shoulders. I’m not an idiot,” Cherry says, nonchalantly, staring at her fingernails, as if they held more value to her than his life

Hands curled at his sides, Oswald paces back and forth, attempting to keep himself from exploding like a powder keg. “That’s why you were surprised to see me,” he comments, sharply. “You believed me _dead!_ I helped you, out of the goodness of my heart, as a favour, and you throw me under the bus. You _spineless—_ ”

Cherry laughs. She laughs and Oswald cannot make sense of it...or her. Even as she dissolves into silent giggles he gawks at her as if she is mutating before his very eyes. “She was _impressed_ , Oswald.”

“And you _believed_ her?”

“Whether I believe her or not, is hardly my concern. She asked to meet you before the end of the week, and I assured her I’d pass on the message. If you checked your phone, you’d know this.” Their gazes connect and Oswald refuses to blink, not because he can’t, but because if he was to die at the hands of Fish Mooney, he wants Cherry to remember him as he is now: angry, furious...verging on stupefied at the direction his life is suddenly taking. 

Reaching behind her, Cherry opens the door and the small storage room is flooded with the sounds of fists meeting skin and overjoyed cheers; only then does Oswald blink.

“Take the rest of the night off,” Cherry orders. “You look like you need the rest.”

“You still owe me a cut of the profits.”

“Come see me next week,” she calls, voice growing fainter as she walks further and further away, leaving him alone, staring through an open door.

☂

Oswald doesn’t go to see Fish Mooney that night, he doesn’t the next one either. He uses his last remaining days, thinking, reflecting on what could come of his actions—death is likely, and Cherry _could_ be lying, but there is also a chance for opportunity. 

Is an opportunity worth a gamble on his life?

Is such a gamble worth a peek behind clouds he refuses to acknowledge?

Oswald sighs and his shoulders fall flat. _What am I thinking? I could lose everything I have...and frankly, that isn’t much._

Sitting on the corner of his bed, closet doors thrown wide open to unearth a sea of black, Oswald stares into it, through his collection of tee-shirts and scuffed jeans, past the high-collared jackets and leather belts, all the way to the single lone suit hanging in the back... 

and then he stands. _Okay. Let’s do this._

Getting ready is something Oswald usually enjoys, once he finds his momentum, that is, but this feels different, heavier somehow. Striping off the outfit which has opted as a second skin these past few years, Oswald slips on a crisp white shirt and buttons it quickly, as if taking more than half a minute to do so would see him back out of the process. It hugs his body closely, the trousers do, too, every piece perfectly tailored like he purchased it yesterday, not several years ago.

Staring into the mirror, posture perfect, looking more dignified than he has in his entire life, Oswald finally understands why—it wasn’t intended for something so mediocre _,_ and _neither_ was he. A nine-to-five job would not excite and terrify him, it would not sate that itch, that drive, that overwhelming _surge_ that thrums his heart and jitters his fingertips. 

Instead, it would likely kill him in the slowest manner possible—through boredom, through endless repetition, through staff meetings and functions filled with people comfortable living their lives in moral confinement. 

No.

Oswald _needs_ more.

He _wants_ more.

And he’s prepared to do _anything_ to get it.

So, yes, it’s worth it. If his life is a bargaining chip, then he bets everything on black. All or nothing. One way or another he’s going to die, and he is determined to make a name for himself along the way.

☂

The very second Oswald steps into the living room his stomach shouts at him in angry _painful_ grumbles, reminding him he barely eaten these past few days. Stress had ruined his appetite, and now he is paying the price for his carelessness. Led by his nose toward the kitchen, hand slapped over his stomach, Oswald is enveloped by the delectable aroma of paprika, onion, and garlic, and then by his mother's arms.

“Oswald, so elegant you are, and handsome—just like your father—but much too thin. Come, sit. I make your favourite.”

Regret fills him, settling heavily in his bones. Shooting out a hand, he catches her arm just as she begins to head back to the stove. “Mother...I can’t stay. I have a—”

“A date?” Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, and Oswald laughs.

“No. Not a date. I don’t even—” _have my eye on anyone,_ he wants to say, but flashes of Edward replace enter his mind. 

It’s only been a few days since he last saw him, kissed him, held him, and somehow that feels like too long. _What would a date with Edward be like? Would Edward even be interested in something like that? In me? We barely even know each other._ They’ve only ever met under stressful, emotionally heightened circumstances, a date may prove them incompatible. 

Yet, even with doubts in his head, Oswald imagines reaching for Edward’s hand from across a candlelit table, watching on as his face ducks and warms with a small sweet smile. Oh, and the way those long, dark eyelashes would flutter open to share a glance so tender, it could surely stop Oswald’s heart. 

Oswald licks his lips. When put like that, a date doesn’t sound so bad. 

“Liebling, your face betrays you,” his mother comments, gently stroking his cheek. Oswald snaps back to himself in time to see an almost wistful expression passing over her face before she turns away. “Take your umbrella, the rain will happen soon.”

“It’s not a date, mother,” he reminds her, moving to snatch it out of the stand.

“And the flowers. I always loved the flowers,” she continues, ignoring him, arms dancing at her sides, lost in what he assumes are fond memories.

“It’s _not_ a _date!_ ” At this rate, Oswald almost wishes it was. Spending an evening with Edward would be far more pleasurable than an unpredictable meeting with Fish Mooney.

Opening the apartment door, Oswald hears his mother call “have fun” and it ignites a ball of fire in his chest, so with a huff, he storms out into the stairwell and slams the door closed behind him. 

_Have fun…._

If she knew what he was about to do, she wouldn’t wish him merriment. She’d wrap him in blankets and attempt to lock him in his room—two things Oswald does not have time for. 

Walking outside into the cool night air, breath misting with each exhalation, Oswald puts all thoughts of his mother, her goulash, and Edward behind him. 

They can wait, Fish Mooney will not.

☂

Oswald’s never met Miss Mooney. He’s been aware of her, of course, as most in Gotham are, and he swears he’s caught a glimpse of her a time or two, but he’s never _met_ her...until now. 

Strolling into her club, nodding respectfully to the person standing by the door, Oswald can feel his pulse thrumming in his temples. Above him glistens a crystal chandelier, refracting fractals of light around the room, but Oswald pays no attention to it, not right now, because as he steps further into the room, moving past the bar, toward rear of the club where performers sing and dance merrily on stage, there’s only one thought on his mind: _I’m here...at Fish Mooney’s?_

_I’m here, but where is she?_

Leaning against the archway separating the front from the back, Oswald flicks his eyes around the room, and does what he does best—he observes, only there’s no sign of the woman who requested his presence. So, he looks back the way he came and up to the balcony, but she isn’t there, either. 

_Where is she? Have I missed my chance?_ he thinks, face pinched—then several other questions strike him. _Why is Fish Mooney interested in someone like me? What can I offer her that she doesn’t already have? Or that she can’t gain quick access to?_

He doesn’t have power, or influence, or allies. Prior to this, all Oswald’s ever known is dirt, and dust, and smoke, and ash, and he was content with that—well, not content, exactly, but it was _familiar_. He knew where he stood, he knew where the line was, and now, now he doesn’t. 

Now he finds himself somewhere he never expected to be—not this soon, anyhow—a _palatial_ oasis filled with people who smile because they are jolly, and not because someone lies bleeding on the bitumen. 

Oh, but Oswald’s certain if he went through this room with one of those lights capable of detecting blood, he’d find plenty of it.

This room is for show, but it doesn’t show anything important—at least not to those who don’t understand what it is they _aren’t_ seeing.

“So _you’re_ the man I’ve been waiting half a week to meet? Oswald Cobblepot, isn’t it?” a voice calls from over his shoulder. “I was beginning to believe you had declined my invitation.”

_No, obviously I’m Richard Stromboli,_ Oswald is about to sneer before he realises _who_ he is addressing.Standing beside him is Fish Mooney. _The_ Fish Mooney, in all her jewelled splendour. She isn’t a tall woman; even in heels she’s a few inches shorter than Oswald, but she carries herself as if she was. 

“Y-yes, ma’am,” Oswald says, chagrin to realise that his voice is _quivering_. Be that fear or unbridled excitement, his entire frame is shaking, too. 

“Feel free to call me Oswald,” he continues. There’s no need for him to ask how Fish knew who he was, for he’s certain that he sticks out like a sore thumb. Fish’s nods, curtly. “I feel I must apologise for keeping you waiting. I was otherwise engaged. If I knew—” 

“ _Oswald_ , before you utter another word, I would like to take this chance to inform you that I will not accept secrecy or dishonesty, so speak wisely.” Her eyes cut to his—dark iris’ beneath thick curled lashes and shimmering blue eyeshadow—lingering barely a second, but it’s long enough for Oswald to get the memo: don’t lie to Fish Mooney. Better yet, don’t get caught in a lie. 

_Like I’d be foolish enough to let my depths be seen._

In a moment of sheer relief, the answer to Edward’s riddle, the message which has been mocking him for several days, becomes clear. _Tool of thief, toy of queen—oh that brilliant, beautiful man. How didn’t I see it sooner?_

Masks are not a foreign concept to Oswald, for he knows them intimately well: the doting son who strives only to impress his naive mother, the irritated bartender who uses his crass manner to hide his true motivations, the timid young man who is willing to do _anything_ for a foot in the door. 

Yes, he’s familiar with them, and he knows the perfect one for this very situation. 

Playing on an abstracted form of cowardice, painting himself as someone he is not, Oswald ducks his head a fraction and flicks his eyes to the pointed toe of her heels. “Yes, Miss Mooney, please forgive me. I feared that if you knew about my altercation with the GCPD, you’d find me a... _liability_.”

“My, my—” Fish sounds amused, that is if Oswald is reading her correctly “—aren’t you sweet?”

_Not particularly._ Before he can think of a more _well-mannered_ response, she speaks again. “Your run-in with them will not be an issue, but do not make a habit of it.” 

Oswald nods his agreement. The last place he wants to be is locked up in that cell again. “Miss Mooney, if I may be so forward, why did you ask for me?”

“Hm, we’ll get to that,” she says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But, first: why are _you_ here?” 

“I—I don’t understand. Cherry said you wished to speak with me, I can only assume—”

“Go _on_.”

A muscle twitches involuntarily at the corner of his right eye, and his heart _thuds_ solidly in his chest after skipping a beat. “I-if I have overstepped my bounds, I did so with no ill-intention,” Oswald says, referencing the only connection they share. “Life in the Narrows is restrictive; the people there have no vision, and little incentive to alter their ways. Seeing to the return of the fight clubs was—it was a way to unstick the stuck, to give them meaning, and to create profit along the way.” 

If Fish is even the slightest bit pleased by Oswald’s answer, she doesn’t let it show. Her lips remain fixed in a tight grim line, all traces of her earlier amusement eradicated.

“That’s not what I asked, Oswald. Why are you here, in my club, when you could be out enjoying the night?”

“I—” Oswald bites his tongue. _What does she expect from me? Grovelling? Flattery? Fine. If debasing myself gets me somewhere, then so be it._

“I’m here for an opportunity to prove myself to you,” he begins, selecting his words carefully. The greatest lies often contain a thread of truth. “You are one of, if not _the_ most accomplished woman in this city. You have power and respect, _and_ you—” 

“Try again. Why are you _here_ , Oswald?” she cuts in, raising her voice; Oswald straightens. “What makes you so different from every other young man who _begs_ me for a foot in the door? The depths of your servitude? Your willingness to do _anything_? Those are words I’ve heard many times over. _What—_ ” Fish prods one of her talon-like nails into his chest “—makes you... _different?_ ”

“The fact that you asked me to be here!” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can put a stop to them. “I am not like those who came before me, because they did so in greed or desperation. I’m _here,_ because you asked me to be.”

Fish’s eyes _twinkle_ , and when she smiles, she looks like a shark. It’s fitting. “Clever boy,” she says, patting his grazed cheek. “There may be hope for you, yet.”

It’s not often Oswald is impressed by people, but Fish Mooney is not just anyone. As the only woman granted a high-ranking position in the Falcone mafia, she is not an enemy he wishes to make...before he can afford to do so. If he has even the _slightest_ hope of fulfilling his destiny, he’s going to have to be more mindful of the way he behaves, and the way those behaviours are interpreted. 

If he knows too much, he’s dispensable. If he knows too little, he’s disposable. When dealing with Fish Mooney, the line is something Oswald has to be constantly conscious of. Step too far over it and he’ll leave a trail of traceable footprints behind. He’ll become visible, rather than shrouded. 

To make matters worse, she is not the only shark patrolling the waters.

Discretion is key.

Over the next few hours, Fish and Oswald continue to converse. She invites him to sit at her table, an offer Oswald swiftly accepts, and asks him a series of personal questions he could not even begin recall if he tried, for he was far too busy cataloguing his own set of information, like the way a muscle in Fish’s cheek twitches when someone compliments her, no matter the intention behind it.

When Oswald leaves for the night, with a promise to return the following evening, he has a new job—well, that’s a stretch. He has the _same_ job, in a new location: bartending for Fish Mooney. She’s cautious to let him closer than that, as she has every right to be, but she’s also granting him the opportunity he so desperately seeks.

After reaching a safe distance from her club, making certain he’s alone, Oswald pulls out his phone and messages Edward. It’s late, and the man is likely sleeping, but he can’t stop his fingers from tapping on the keys, can’t stop the smile on his face, either, or deny himself the pleasure in reopening their line of communication after a few silent days.

Typing out two small, heartfelt words, Oswald hits send.

  


_Thank you._

_\- O.C_

  


Before he even has time to put his phone away, a message from Edward pops up on screen. _Why is he still awa—_

Clicking the call button, Oswald puts the phone to his ear. It rings twice.

“Why are you thanking me?” Edward’s voice is croaky, and breathy in equal measure. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have _appalling_ phone manners?”

“I—ah, no? People don’t...call me. But I’ll—I’ll work on it,” Edward says through a yawn, and Oswald cannot help but grin wildly at the image that produces—Edward, tucked up to his neck in blankets, hair tousled and uncombed, cheeks and ears tinged pink, with a vacant expression on his face—that he almost doesn’t catch the second half of his sentence. 

“Is that why you are thanking me?“

“What? No, you don’t need to work on anything. It’s—I was teasing you. It was a joke.”

“Oh,” Edward says, quietly demure, as if the thought didn’t occur to him. “Okay. It—okay.” 

“Edward?”

“Hmm? Yeah, sleepy.”

“I hadn’t—” Frowning, Oswald rips the phone away from his ear and— _three am? When did it get so late?_ “I’m sorry, Ed. I wasn’t aware of the time. I’ll let you get back to your res—”

“No, wait!” Edward begs, sounding both fearful and slightly more alert. “I don’t know why you called, and if I don’t know I won’t be able to sleep, and... _please_ don’t hang up.”

“Well, when you put it like that….” Oswald finds himself laughing; the carefree nature of it sounds foreign, but not unwelcome. “I solved your riddle, that’s why I called. Masks, right?”

There’s a clang on the line, followed by a distant, muffled cry of pain.

“Ed! What’s happening? Are you—”

“Right as rain. Lights off. Wanted tea. Forgot glasses. Bed railing. Toe,” Edward lists, creating a clear mental picture. “Knew you’d get it in the end.”

Forgoing commenting on that slight insult, knowing Edward didn’t intend anything by it, Oswald pulls out a cigarette and lights it, before saying, “Wait, why are you—go back to bed.”

“But, I want to talk to you, _with_ you. Prepositions.”

“Lie down,” Oswald orders, when Edward giggles, clearly deluded in his weary state. “I will—don’t _but_ me, Ed. And don’t apologise either. Just...lie down, get comfortable, and I’ll talk with you while I walk home. Deal?”

And Oswald does. He waits until he hears the telltale sounds of rustling blankets, and Edward’s confirmation, then begins to talk about everything and nothing in particular. What he is saying hardly matters to him—somewhere along the line he begins retelling his favourite Greek myths and legends, and details the lessons he extracted from them—for it’s the time spent with Edward, in a situation that contains no stress and no uncertainty, that he finds himself treasuring.

By the time he reaches his front door, he’s been listening to the sound of Edward dozing for a few minutes longer than he would likely ever disclose. For the life of him, he couldn’t bring himself to end the call, not when this is one of the most _human_ interactions he’s ever had the pleasure of participating in. All too often, Oswald is forced to play the game, to keep himself on guard, to pick and chose his battles, even in the simplest of times. 

But this...is different. 

And suddenly, that notion of them not getting along outside of tense situations and conveniently forced interactions, fades away. If there’s one thing he’s come to realise after the past week, hoping for things might not be so bad. It may even be rewarding.

So what if the sun doesn’t shine, and the city remains grey? Oswald’s never felt as warm as he does now, listening to Edward’s steady breath pass through the phone and into his ear.

“Sweet dreams, Edward.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my original write-up of this chapter, Oswald was never going to make that phone call to Ed. It was supposed to be a series of texts...I'm glad I changed my mind!
> 
> Spoilers for the next chapter: Edward is going to be pondering the motives behind lies and deceit when he finds himself in a sticky situation.

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be from Oswald's POV, where we will see what his life is like prior to meeting Fish. 
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


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